


Becoming

by lunacosas



Series: Gladiators, Slaves & Tears [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Anal Sex, Ancient Rome, Blood, Crying, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gladiators, Graphic Description, Humiliation, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Large Cock, M/M, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Oral Sex, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Pain, Painful Sex, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rough Sex, Slavery, Spit As Lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:20:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28513296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunacosas/pseuds/lunacosas
Summary: His new dominus is not as kind as his previous owner - nowhere near. Not long after joining the household, Julian is used as part of the evening's entertainment for a private guest, who wants to see a gladiator in action.[Chapter 1 is(Not) A Beastfrom Jaskier's POV]
Relationships: Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Gladiators, Slaves & Tears [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2088663
Comments: 33
Kudos: 104





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> Why reply to comments when you can take all the wonderful energy and motivation they give you and channel it into writing something else?? Thank you so much to everyone who left a comment on the first work. This is now a series! Woo!
> 
> READ THE TAGS & WARNINGS - if this isn't your thing or you start to feel bad while reading, close the tab.
> 
> Glossary:  
> Cithara (kithara) - a type of stringed instrument, regarded as more beautiful than the lute (which was seen as a more common instrument)  
> Dominus - master/owner  
> Lanista - owner of a ludus  
> Ludus - gladiator school  
> Praetor - Roman official who, amongst other things, organises games

His new dominus is not a kind man. His smile is hollow, his hands as cold as his eyes as he appraises his newest purchase, and as he falls back and turns to order that Julian be seen to his thin face pinches into a sour expression. He knows at once that this is nothing like the household he has been sold from, that his former dominus’ generally jovial and amused nature is not to be found in this new master. Even the villa feels sharp and severe, the walls seeming grey and oppressive as if they have absorbed the dominus’ nature. This is the house of Lentulus; a ludus. Somewhere beneath the villa men are kept and trained for the sole purpose of fighting in the arena. It is a place of brutality, not of beauty, no matter how expensive and ornate the furnishings and frescos that decorate the rooms.

He is relieved to find that he is treated with disinterest more than anything else. He was probably bought as yet another ornament, and prefers being overlooked to attracting any direct attention. As different as his former dominus is from his new, they seem to share the same tastes in pleasure, namely women. In his former household, Julian knew he would be free of molestation, his dominus keen to protect Julian from practices he found not to his liking. Julian had still enjoyed others, and as long as he was not caught there was no harm in bedding other slaves or once, very memorably, his dominus’ very eager and very beautiful nephew.

This villa is nothing like that. The other slaves look ahead with fixed expressions, or keep their heads bowed. They do not speak, even when spoken to, and hold themselves completely still when their dominus is near. More than a place of function, this is a place of unkindness, with their dominus at the centre of it all.

Julian’s taste of it comes sooner than he would like.

He is brought to play for a guest, a praetor whose favour the dominus already has but is keen to keep. That, or he is in the habit of accommodating political friends with opulent meals and allowing them to command whatever they so desire.

This praetor wishes to have gladiators brought up for his entertainment.

Julian, playing for two men who do not care for his skill or mastery of the cithara, tries to suppress the shiver of nervous excitement. He has never been to the games. The only gladiators he has known have been the handful that were brought to his former dominus’ villa as bodyguards to the guests, and even then there was no chance to speak with them. He wonders what sort of gladiators he will see, how they will compare.

Fifteen are brought. A mere taste, the lanista calls them. Julian watches them carefully, the raw strength and power the men hold leaving him breathless. Like the other slaves, they are silent, holding themselves upright, staring straight ahead. Amongst them there is some variety, some shorter, others taller, all of them wearing only subligaculum and carrying some degree of padding weight around their middle. The whole of the Empire seems represented, from Carthage to Gaul, and Julian’s eyes settle for a moment on the one with the fairest skin and the most unusual white hair. His scars vary from pink to silver-white, new to old. Julian has never seen a man like him before. He has never seen a man like any of them before.

His dominus stands, guiding the praetor forward to inspect the gladiators, and at the dominus’ command, the gladiators strip.

They are all, each and every one, a magnificent example of masculine perfection. Julian shifts his cithara a little, trying not to ogle at the gladiators the same way the Romans are doing. The white-haired gladiator is exceptionally beautiful, drawing his eye, but the man standing next to him does not escape his notice. Tanned and scarred, he possesses an impressive cock.

The praetor, however, seems unimpressed. “Bring the boy,” he decides.

“Julian!”

With a cold shock, Julian realises he is being addressed.

“Come here.”

His fingers leave the strings, his hands shaking as he sets down the plectrum and cithara. He stands, hoping he remembers how to walk, suddenly afraid. He fears what is coming. He knows it will not be pleasant. Remembering something of himself, he forces his hands down by his sides, bowing his head as he approaches the two Romans.

He can feel beady eyes on him, the praetor leering as he delivers his verdict. “Yes… Yes, he will do. And I think…”

Julian’s heart is in his throat, his whole body cold. The praetor is examining the gladiators again, slowly pacing the line like a predator toying with its prey. He comes to a stop before the heavily scarred gladiator, sounding close to laughing with malicious delight. “What a barbarous cock. How hideous!”

Julian does not look.

“And what a face!” the praetor continues. “Are you sure this is a man, and not a beast?”

He laughs freely at his own foul joke, and Julian loses all rhythm of breathing, looking back up again at the gladiator they speak about.

“He will do,” the praetor announces, and as he and the dominus turn away, the gladiator looks up.

He looks up, right at Julian.

There are no words that can describe Julian’s fear in that moment, his terror at what is about to happen. This man, chosen for his looks, is to be set upon him for entertainment. It will be no match. The gladiator will destroy him.

The rest of the gladiators leave. It is a kindness and a cruelty. Julian does not wish for anyone to be witness to what will come next, but nor does he want to be left alone with these men. He finds himself trembling, barely able to control himself as the cruelty of his new dominus makes itself known.

The praetor is touching the gladiator, fondling him, calling him vile. “I bet he can’t wait to fuck such a pretty thing, can he?” he laughs to his companion, and then he turns his attention back to the gladiator. “Look at him, beast,” he commands.

The gladiator looks. His gaze is closed off, distant, his expression blank.

“I’ll wager he’s never touched anything so beautiful before,” the praetor adds. “He should thank me! Tonight is his lucky night. Boy!”

The shout hurts, slamming into him.

“Go to him,” the lanista commands, and Julian wishes with all his heart and body and soul that he could disappear from this place. He is unsteady on his feet, his stomach knotted lungs crushed by fear as he forces himself closer to the praetor.

The look he is given is not one of a man smirking unkindly, it is of a malicious demon delighting in misery.

“Put those pretty hands to good use.”

Julian does not want to touch him. He has no desire to reach out to the man who is going to rape him, but he fears what will happen if he disobeys, if he has to learn firsthand whatever lesson it is that makes the other slaves in this place so obedient.

So he reaches out, and he touches, loosely closing a shaking, sweaty hand around the soft girth of the gladiator’s cock. He cannot hide that he is trembling, unable to move more than the smallest amount. He is aware of the two Romans watching them, expecting to be entertained.

He’s so on edge, so uneasy, that his senses pick up on the smallest of things. The shift in the gladiator is profound, even though it must be so small anyone else might miss it, the gentle exhale and the almost imperceptible relaxing of his body perhaps going unnoticed by everyone other than Julian. The powerful man remains passive as Julian tries to stroke him to hardness, uninterested, Julian’s own touch is as unwelcome as the praetor’s. He is no better than—

He feels the small shift, the way the gladiator roles his hips the tiniest of fraction. It is deliberate, carefully measured, and somehow given rather than taken. Julian is still stunned by it, still trying to steady himself, when they’re called to move to the middle of the room.

The lanista and his guest are seated again, reclining on the cushioned chairs. The gladiator goes immediately, worryingly practiced at obeying, and Julian, afraid of attracting displeasure, follows.

“Your beauty isn’t enough to rouse him,” the praetor delights, laughing at him, pain needling through Julian at his mocking words. He hates the solution the praetor orders: “Use your mouth.”

There is no other way to obey than to sink to his knees. The mosaic is harder beneath him than any floor he has ever knelt on, and Julian lowers his gaze, having to look to make sure that when he leans in he can take the gladiator’s cock in his mouth. He catches it between his lips, breathing heavily, catching the scent of perfume and beneath it clean, oiled skin. He sucks carefully, and the gladiator trembles above him, his breathing faltering as Julian triest to push the circumstances he is caught in from his mind. His tongue touches the underside of the already generous cock filling his mouth, and he feels it twitch and swell, making him falter. The gladiator is big. His cock is not just for show, and this thing is going to be forced inside him, splitting him apart for the amusement of the praetor. He wants nothing more than to pull away, to run, but he knows that is not an option.

Something touches him. Something gentle catches against his shoulder, on the side furthest away from his audience. He realises what it is, and can feel the meaning in the softness of the gladiator’s touch as he rubs a little circle against his skin. The small gesture is comforting, in a twisted way. The gladiator is not forceful, he is not unkind. He is merely doing what he has to.

Julian has to play his part too. It is easier with that little point of contact to distract him, to push the praetor and lanista further from his mind, to make the warm weight against his tongue more immediate. Julian has done this before. He is good at it. He is still too afraid to be his best, but he pulls back and starts again, keeping his pace slow but his touch firmer. The gladiator’s cock is far from unpleasant, the man standing above him suppressing his responses as he grows fully hard in Julian’s mouth, holding himself as still as he is able. He reacts strongly as Julian flicks his tongue across the tight cord beneath the head of his cock, making him look up.

The praetor called him ugly. Hideous. A beast. Julian sees none of those things. The heavy scarring is a little unsettling, but there is more to the gladiator than that. His eyes are a rich, unusual honey brown, warm and kind, even though he is looking down at Julian with unease. His breathing flutters for a moment, his chest visibly catching on the effort, and Julian feels something within himself loosen and come free. The gladiator is just as enslaved as he is, no more willing to hurt Julian than Julian is willing to hurt him. There is not a trace of cruel enjoyment or pleasure to be found in the other man, no malice, contempt or hatred. Whatever happens next, Julian has already forgiven him.

He does not expect his eyes to start stinging.

He looks down abruptly, alarmed by the realisation that he is fighting back tears. The awful truth of the sadistic play they are caught in closes around him, choking him. This is going to hurt them both. The gladiator is not an uncaring thing. No matter the words slung at him, he is a beautiful and gentle being.

The praetor is telling him to stop, to adjust his position. “Kneel, boy. Let the ugly brute mount you.”

The words sting like a lash against his heart. He would tell the gladiator not to listen to the lie if he could. He would tell him that as terrifying and awful as this is, he does not hold his part in it against him. The best he can manage is to look up and try to say with one last glance all he feels, his tongue pressing against the gladiator’s cock before he pulls off, leaving him dripping with spit.

The tiled floor has not grown any softer. It hurts to adjust his position, and the fact he is close to sobbing freely now draws the scornful laughter of their audience. He cannot block it out, even when the gladiator kneels behind him, carefully parting him. The fact the gladiator hesitates to violate him draws more scorn and mocking, and tears splash against his fingers as Julian realises they have not been given any oil. The gladiator is expected to fuck him dry.

He swears this is hell.

He knows it is coming, but is too tense to be able to relax, strung taught in anticipation of all the pain that is to come. The gladiator is huge. The head of his cock feels impossibly large as it pushes against Julian’s entrance, the weight behind it growing and growing until it forces past the resistance of Julian’s body. He whimpers, whining and gasping at the pain that sears through him, blinded by it, sobbing freely. The almost dry push of the gladiator’s cock seems to never end, and when it does there is no pressure against Julian’s ass. The huge thing is not even completely inside him. He chokes on air at the terrible realisation, wishing he could scream. He cannot help crying freely, humiliated beyond words, broken by the knowledge that his violation is merely a thing of entertainment, a show for those in power to watch. The world is cruel, so cruel, so awful, so unbearable.

The pain begins to distort everything. Julian’s mind tries and fails to process it. His whole body is a white hot pit of feverish pain, centred around the point where the gladiator spears him. The only calm within the storm is the little point of contact on his hip, where the gladiator presses his thumb against him, but even that is quickly lost. The pace, at some cue Julian misses, picks up. The gladiator thrusts fully into him, and Julian cannot be sure he has not screamed. His lungs are scratched raw with the brutal scrape of each breath he tries to take, his gut twisting and cramping, his knees and palms white with pain as he rocks helplessly against the mosaic. The gladiator has become rougher, faster, snapping his hips forward with powerful thrusts and pulling back with searing hurriedness, and Julian starts to feel his grip on consciousness wavering. There is too much pain, too much cruelty, and he cannot process it, cannot hold onto himself or onto anything. Fingertips are biting into his flesh, holding him in place so he might be used, fucked, raped, broken. All for entertainment.

The gladiator comes with a groan, spilling his seed deep within Julian and then pulling out so abruptly it would be excruciating if Julian were capable of processing the hit of pain. His ass clenches, insides spasming, and he feels the hot flow of something against his thighs.

Someone is pulling him up. Two pairs of hands. Cool hands. Thin and rough. Slaves’ hands. Julian barely knows what is happening. His face is streaked with tears, his clothes dishevelled, his body ruined. The praetor’s hideous face fills his vision as he is forced to look at him, and he whimpers, fearing what comes next.

He sags with relief as he is sent away. The other slaves help him to the baths, undressing him and guiding him into the warm water. His body screams, and he cries, shaking and shivering violently, sobbing as his blood darkens the water.

“Hush,” he is told, and it is almost kind.

The hands that wash him down are practiced. He is given clean clothes, and the medicus tends to him before he is left with the body slaves again.

“Go bed,” one of them encourages. “Dominus not need again tonight.”

There is barely any comfort in that.

“The gladiator,” Julian says. “Is he okay?”

He is given an odd look. “Yes. Beast all good.”

Something tells him that if he asks he will not learn a name.

“Go bed now. Rest. Tomorrow please dominus again.”

He withers at that, unable to consider facing the ordeal again. His body is a mass of pain, each breath hurting, each step agony as his torn muscles continue to scream in searing discomfort.

“Easier next time,” he is told with a pat on his arm.

It sounds like a threat.


	2. II

The dominus has no real need of him for the next two days. Julian is commanded to sit in the alae and play for a time each afternoon, but the dominus quickly tires of him and he is dismissed back to the servant’s quarters where he rests and listens to the sounds rising up from the ludus. He does not seem to notice how poor Julian’s playing is, his mind distracted by pain.

On the third day, after he is dismissed and hears of the dominus’ plans to depart the villa for the rest of the afternoon, Julian returns the cithara to its place, and then steals towards the back of the villa, where the stone steps lead to the store, and to the ludus. There is something he wants to do, someone he wants to see.

No one stops him. No one is guarding the gate when he reaches it either, the heavy iron latticework running the length of the atrium, separating it from the veranda. Beyond the veranda there is a vast courtyard of sand, the sun beating down on it, and on the men who are training there. To the left, he can see what must be the sleeping quarters, to the right an armoury, but his focus is on the gladiators themselves. He recognises a few of them. They are being led in practiced moves, an overseer barking out orders. Julian cannot see the man he is looking for, though.

“What are you going here?”

The gruff voice startles him. Julian turns towards the source of it, unsure how he did not notice the white-haired gladiator standing in the shadows. “Dominus has sent me to give a message to the gladiator from the other night.”

The white-haired man snorts, making it clear what he thinks of the lie, and comes closer. He is an impressively strong man, broad-shouldered, wrapped in muscle, and holds himself in a powerful, intimidating pose. Julian does not back down.

“Will you fetch him?”

“You don’t even know his name.”

Julian feels less than half the gladiator’s size in that moment, even though they are of a height.

“What do you want him for anyway?”

“I want to see him.”

Brown eyes, as unexpectedly unique as everything else about the gladiator’s colouring, bore into him. “I doubt he wants to see you.”

It stings, even though Julian understands. “Please?”

The gladiator sighs, taking a step back without answering.

“Wait!” Julian pleads as he walks away. “Will you at least tell me his name?”

He is ignored, his heart falling as he watches the gladiator walk away. Defeated, he presses his head against the bars, wondering why he thought this would be a good idea. He lingers, the sound of wood crashing against wood, men calling out and clashing rhythmically together washing over him. It holds more warmth and life in it than the muted footfall and hushed whispers up in the villa, to which he is reluctant to return. There is no reason for him to go, really, beyond the painful weariness of his body.

“Julian?”

He looks up sharply, immediately breathless as he sees who is walking towards him. His legs almost give out beneath him, and as he grasps tightly at the bars he realises what he is feeling is relief. “You’re okay,” he realises.

The gladiator comes carefully closer, watching him closely, seeming unsure. “Are you?”

“Yes,” he says, and then realises it is a lie. “Well, no.” Gods know why he is being so honest. “I was worried about you.”

“You were worried about me?”

He tries to stand up a little straighter, to look at the man who was forced to violate him, and not betray the fact he likes the sound of his voice. It is low and rough, but gentle, tinged with an accent Julian cannot place. “It wasn’t your choice to do that to me.”

The gladiator bows his head, almost visibly crushed by a thick, heavy black cloud of guilt.

“Will you tell me your name?” Julian hopes.

“It’s Eskel.”

Eskel speaks to the floor, just out of reach. “Eskel?” Julian asks, slipping his hand through the bars. He holds it out as an offer, hoping…

After a long, painfully anxious wait, Eskel steps closer. His hand curls carefully around Julian’s, and Julian tightens his grip, not wanting to let go. “I don’t hold what happened against you.”

Eskel looks up at him, eyes filled with sadness. “You should.”

“No.” He is firm on this, wanting to step closer but being held back by the bars. “It was not your doing.” He pauses for half a beat, adjusting his posture. “If you think it was then I’m going to have to knock this gate down and come kick some sense into your ass until you acknowledge that I’m right about these things.”

Eskel gives a huff of laughter, a sad little smile tugging at his lips. It is a smile nonetheless, and Julian thinks it looks rather beautiful.

“See?” he encourages.

The gladiator looks at him again, shaking his head. “You don’t deserve this place.”

“Neither do you,” Jaskier says softly.

“I hope your goodness survives it.”

Eskel’s words leave Julian breathless, his heart fluttering softly in his chest as he looks up at the other man. “If yours can, then so can mine,” he decides.

“I’m not…”

Julian watches him, his gaze shutting down Eskel’s opinion.

With a sigh, Eskel steps closer, still holding Julian’s hand. “Can I give you some advice?”

He nods, realising in that moment that he has shared more words with Eskel than he has with everyone else combined since his last dominus passed away and he was resold.

“If the dominus is hosting a party, or has guests, he might…”

Julian shivers, knowing what Eskel means.

“He will not touch you himself, but his guests will. Prepare yourself beforehand. Even a little oil will be better than…”

He nods, squeezing Eskel’s hand. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t warn you sooner.”

“I appreciate you giving me advice now,” Julian reassures him.

Behind Eskel’s back, the thudding pulse of training continues, and they listen in silence for a moment.

“You know,” Julian murmurs, almost thoughtlessly, his gaze tracing the contours of Eskel’s face, “you really are quite handsome.”

He sees the way Eskel flushes, his hand loosening and flexing in Julian’s. “There is no need to lie.”

“Why would I lie?” Julian wonders.

Eskel shifts closer, resting his forehead gently against the bars close to Julian as he sighs in resignation. “I don’t know,” he admits.

Julian reaches for a smile, tilting his head up a little to admire Eskel, determined to memorise every detail. “There you have it then.”

He wishes the gate was not in the way, that there was more time, but the moments they have left slip away. “I should go,” Eskel says heavily, slowly letting go of Julian’s hand. “Thank you for coming.”

“Would you mind if I came again?”

“No, but be careful.”

Julian nods, taking the advice seriously. “Of course. Thank you, Eskel.”

Eskel nods, a step back now, no longer within reach. Still, Julian leaves his hand dangling through the gate. “Good luck, Julian.”

He has turned around already, but Julian calls after him, gripped by a sudden rush of anxiety as something huge, something unspeakably important, falls on him. “Wait! Eskel!”

Eskel pauses, turning to look at him again.

His heart hammering in his chest, Julian realises he is pressing himself hard against the bars, longing to get closer to the other man as he gives him something precious, something so fragile it had almost turned to dust. “It’s not Julian. My dominus called me that. My name is Jaskier.”

The confession frees him to a vulnerability he did not know he could feel, the uncertain little step he takes towards reclaiming something of himself at the mercy of the ground upon which it falls.

Eskel is kind. He hears Julian, his smile soft as he is entrusted with the secret. “Jaskier,” he murmurs in both acknowledgement and parting.

It leaves Julian with tears in his eyes, the blessing of his own name spoken by another after so many years unsaid the greatest gift he has ever received. It is like the rain after a lifetime of drought, the parched earth quenched and dirt washed clean by the soothing touch of the sky, a gentle hand bringing comfort and light in the darkest of nights. He watches Eskel leave, his heart soaring, singing, uplifting him in a way he has never felt before.

He turns and leaves, his body still sore but his spirit feeling whole as he remembers the way Eskel’s tongue had caressed his name.

 _Jaskier_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooo let's see what's next.... Hmmmm. Oh! Ohohohoho okay, yes, that looks fun >:D
> 
> (There are actually choices, and I don't do well with making decisions, so we'll all just have to see what happens.)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Much softer and nicer, the whole AU isn't 100% terrible pain and suffering.

**Author's Note:**

> The series title might change because gladiators are slaves so it feels a bit weird to me. Anyway, I hope this is what you were looking for when you saw the tags!


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